


Paying Forward

by Churbooseanon



Series: RVB 60 Minute Challenge [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Poker, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 05:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4047442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Churbooseanon/pseuds/Churbooseanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are members of PFL you don't cross, because their retribution is fearful to behold. Among those is Agent Connecticut, and York has crossed her at just the wrong time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paying Forward

**Author's Note:**

> For RVB60min challenge. Written in 53 minutes.

Poker night is a sacred event on the Mother of Invention. Some might say it’s because the Freelancers need to unwind from time to time, but to do so as a team. Other members of the crew figured that it had a basis in the fact that the soldiers of the program had no use for their money, no hope of spending it, all doomed to eventually die either in the program or in the war. More theories abounded than even York cared to follow most days. 

No matter what had made it this way, there was a certainty in his head as he walked through the corridors and to the room they always set up in. Well, two things. The first was that yes, above all else, there was no doubting the fact that there was nothing more sacred to the Freelancers than their bi-weekly poker nights. Even anyone who was in the infirmary would often try to find their way out to make it to play cards. Hell, York and Wash had tried to stage an escape after the grenade took his vision so he could make it to play, but that had gone poorly given North’s team-mom tendencies. And poker night had only evolved since then, new rules evolving from the tension that spread through the ship. No AIs were allowed to be active during the game, all of them had to be pulled (even Theta, much to the little one’s discomfort). No one used personal possessions as collateral in a game, that was unforgivable when those possessions could be the last piece of home you had left, or the key to a job. 

The final and most important rule? The second thing that York knows as an absolute in relation to poker night?

No one ever tells 479er when poker is going down. 

York knocks on the door of the poker room, a set of three knocks high on the door and one lower after a moment delay. The secret knock. Everyone on the damn ship knows the secret knock, but it is tradition, and at this point tradition is what keeps these games civil, even when they turn into matches of strip poker (which is a rare thing indeed). 

“Password?” a voice calls through the door, and York rolls his eyes. 

_D, what’s this week’s password?_ he asks his AI. What he gets back feels like a sigh of annoyance. 

_As I told you earlier, it’s caramel cream._

“Caramel cream,” York calls through the door.

With that the door opens, just wide enough for York to get through without his armor (which means it was a good thing to leave it behind), and he slips in. And immediately jumps back a step. Having Maine as the door guard always puts him on edge, but the schedule said it was his week for it, so it wasn’t like York was going to question. First person in for a game managed the table and set up. Second person gets the booze all arranged. And third person is the door guard, charged with keeping Niner out of the room. Things had changed with the AIs, of course. The door guard now got to pick the password on the spot rather than having to decide ahead of time. The code was then transmitted to any of the Freelancers with AIs, and they were responsible for talking to the ones that didn’t to give them the code. 

The hope, of course, was that by going about this whole thing in such a convoluted way, they could keep the dark presence that seemed to sully their table away. Sure, Niner knew the knock, but if she didn’t know the password, and if they recognized her voice, well, she couldn’t get in, right? 

“Nice to see you too big guy,” York greets as he moves to the table, not looking back at the hulking mass. Maine out of armor is actually almost more intimidating than Maine in armor could ever be. Sure he isn’t as big without the armor, and he doesn’t look as big due to lacking the optical illusion of the blinding white of his gear, but everyone looks big in armor. It’s only out of it that York gets reminded of just how massive the difference between him and the ‘big guy’ really is. 

You only have to look at Maine once to understand that he could break you over his knee like a twig, and not even notice it. 

Shuddering at the thought, York turns his attention to the other people already present. Carolina, as is tradition, already sits at the head of the table, checking one of the three new decks of cards before her. The other two won’t be opened until later, but given the propensity of the team to cheat at poker, it’s important to have someone they all trust handle the decks, checking them for any potential marking. And, in the end, the only two people in the room that everyone trusts are Carolina and Wash. Since no one wants to trust Wash with the chance of missing some microscopic mark that would mean someone had the edge, Carolina has become their defacto first in. 

Wyoming, on the other hand, is the defacto second. As York slides into his seat next to Carolina he nods a greeting to the older man. The only reason Wyoming has the honor is because it was found, rather quickly, that the sniper had some insane skill when it came to sneaking a wide range of booze onto the ship after missions. No one was quite sure how he could come back from a thirty minute mission on a barren snowball of a planet with three bottles of Jack and a case of beers, but no one was asking either. Thus he showed up after Carolina to start arranging their drinks for the night. And man did the older Freelancer have a way of making sure you always had the right thing in reach. 

_It is really a simple matter,_ Delta announces in the back of York’s head. _When arranging alcohol for copious amounts of consumption, you start with the highest quality, let someone have a few drinks of that to get their ‘buzz’ on, and then move to lower quality alcohols. It is something you would be capable of doing if you cared to learn the quality of what you put in your mouth._

Truth be told? The thing York really wants to learn is just how Delta manages to convey air quotes on words when only using direct mental contact. Its a talent York hasn’t found yet. 

“So, did you have fun on your mission earlier?” Carolina asks as she sets the deck she is inspecting aside. 

York has to smile at the specific attention from his superior officer. Well, maybe superior. No one here really has true ranks, which makes the whole thing rather awkward, doesn’t it?

“So much fun,” York agrees sarcastically. “First we landed in the middle of what easily amounts to a marsh. Then we got to trek three miles in hostile territory to a subterranean base. Have I ever mentioned that I don’t really like bats? Oh well, anyway I don’t like bats. Which is a bit of a problem with a subterranean base in fucking bat territory because if you accidentally set off an alarm while trying to get into said base, well, guess what is suddenly filling the air.”

“Bats?” Wyoming offers helpfully as he starts setting up York’s alcohol for the night on a short table behind him. Everyone gets their own table, arranged to their personal tastes. Seriously, York’s pretty certain that if there wasn’t a war on, Wyoming would be back on earth living his life by drinking fine alcohol and shooting animals. Weird. 

“Wrong,” York answers, shaking his head in true disappointment at the mustached man’s failure. “The correct answer is _a fuckton of bats_.”

“Correction,” Delta’s flat voice piped up as he appeared in a burst of green by a control panel in the corner. Without their armor around the AIs were forced to use certain computer and electronic software in the MOI itself to manifest visibly. Thus the choice of a room that had minimal computer systems they could make use of. 

Still, York has to glare at his little green traitor. 

“Don’t do it, D,” York warns his mental hitchhiker, earning a small smile from Carolina and an eye roll from Maine by the door. 

“In total there were only a few thousand bats,” Delta continues, as if he hasn’t heard his Freelancer. “Given the average weight of an adult bat of the species in question, it was not possible that there was even a ‘ton’ of bats, much less a ‘fuckton.’”

“Thank you Delta,” Carolina coos at the AI, and York bristles at the laughter behind him from Wyoming. 

“Anyway,” York says, his voice loud and angry, “long story short, the mission went to hell three different ways and I think Connie’s mad at me because I may have gotten in a fist fight with a guy that turned into a shooting fight that turned into him almost shooting her in the gut because I didn’t take care of it fast enough.”

The whole room gives a sympathetic wince, even Maine. There are a lot of Freelancers you don’t want to get onto the bad side of. In fact, York can make a case for every single Freelancer on the ship being the absolute worst person to piss off ever (except for Wash, he’s just too nice). But Connie? Connie doesn’t get mad. Connie gets even. She doesn’t hold back, she doesn’t rush her revenge, she plans it out and executes it flawlessly, as if it was a mission assigned to her by the Director and guaranteed to pull her up at least four positions on the leaderboard. Over the two and a half years the program has been active, York has managed to piss off every last one of the other Freelancers at one point or another, and there has been only two people he’s truly regretted crossing: Tex for the massive, bruising even through heavy armor, beating she had dealt him; and Connie. For everything else. 

“Well, old chap, it sounds like you’re in quite a pickle,” Wyoming observes, a bit of pity in his voice. 

“What the fuck does that even mean?” York demands in annoyance. 

He doesn’t have a chance to get an answer because with that there is a knock at the door. Everyone turns to appraise the thing, as if staring at the piece of battle-hardened steel would tell them who was on the other side.

“Password?” Carolina’s voice calls out on Maine’s behalf once the proper knock has been given.

“Caramel cream,” North’s voice calls back. 

“What a stupid fucking password,” South’s voice comes with his. 

York has to chuckle at the growl that prompts from Maine, but rules are rules, and South knows who chose it and that she’s safe. There is no violence in the poker room (which is half the reason, York suspects, that Tex isn’t invited to the game). 

From there conversation slacks off in drips and drabs as more and more members of the team arrive. After the twins it’s Florida in short order, laden with a platter of rice crispy treats. God help them all if they can even begin to figure out where Florida a) got the supplies, b) found the time, and c) had the inclination to bake in the middle of a fucking war. But the treats have everyone tucking into them with a will as they wait for the final two members of the party to arrive. 

Wash comes in just three minutes before the scheduled start, his shirt drenched with sweat and panting. The whole team gives him a good ribbing for the state he’s even, even as Wash begs off on the case of an unexpected training session scheduled by the Director for who knows what fucking reason. And York joins South on the wolf-whistling when Wash peels his shirt off and tosses it into a corner away from the table. The rookie turns the most amazing shade of scarlet all the way from the tips of his ears down to almost his stomach in his embarrassment until North takes off his own shirt to offer to Wash. And then it’s York and Carolina giving the appreciative noises as South makes retching noises. In the end Wash ends up in South’s shirt (leaving South only in one of her sports bras, and in a terribly bright shade of green), and North gets his own back, much to York’s displeasure. 

After that they’re all waiting for Connie. Connie who is never late. Connie who always shows up after the twins and before Florida. Connie who clearly hadn’t been hurt and so shouldn’t be in the infirmary or doing anything else that would have her miss the sacred right of poker. 

The longer they go without her, the more York finds himself worrying his lower lip between his teeth. The game has started, the first hand dealt out, and the worst part is that York can’t even find mindless comfort in Delta processing complex math problems and probabilities for stupid things in the back of his head. Normally he finds that strangely comforting. Just laying back and falling into Delta’s numbers. But rules are rules and no AIs are allowed to remain active during poker. So York just squirms uncomfortably in his seat, trying to figure out what has changed. Is this her revenge? Making him uncomfortable enough to throw him off of his poker game by not actually being there? If so, it’s ingenious. She gets to make him lose money and in the end, it’s all in his head. She hasn’t done a thing to touch him. 

York hates psychological warfare. 

He’s so deep in thought, so easily distracted, that by the end of the third hand when there is a sharp series of knocks at the door, York, actually flinches hard enough for his seat to tip backwards. York groans in pain through all of the laughter as he rubs the back of his head. Maybe he should just stay here on the floor and never get up again. The embarrassment almost feels like a choking weight around his throat. 

“What’s got him so jumpy?” Wash asks as Carolina delivers the password challenge and Maine rises to go to the door. 

“Apparently someone made the mistake of crossing Connie during a mission today,” Wyoming informs Wash with that level of cool composure that always pisses York the hell off. Where does the fucking asshole get off talking about his mission? 

“Caramel cream,” a voice, Connie’s, announces through the door as North reaches down to help pull York to his feet. 

“Watch what you’re doing or she’s going to walk away with all of your money tonight,” North warns his friend, and York just nods in agreement as Wash moves around the table to set York’s chair to rights. 

“Want some of the ice from Wyoming’s scotch to put on your head?” Wash asks, clearly the only one in the group with any concern for York’s poor, fragile body. 

“I’ll be fine,” York says as he sits back down and the door opens. Fuck Connie for getting him so worked up over nothing. Clearly this is just another poker night and she’ll arrange her revenge later. It wasn’t like Connie to move so fast or so obviously anyway. It usually wasn’t until at least two hours after York has been hit by the revenge that he even processes the full implications of what Connie has done to him. 

The room, he finally notices, is silent. York frowns as he looks around the table and he finds every head pointed toward the door. Confused he follows their gaze and immediately groans. 

So this is it. This is how he goes out? This is how Connie finally destroys him?

“Well if it isn’t the baggage,” Niner greets them all from her place at the door. Next to Connecticut. 

“Niner,” Carolina greets the pilot, her voice cool and level. “Would you care to join us for a hand?”

York feels himself grimace at the idea, and he’s certain there are winces and looks of distaste around the whole of the table. 

“Yeah, I was thinking I could use a new engine on the right wing of my girl,” Niner answers, moving to the table and taking the seat left open for Connie. 

“And how much does that cost?” Florida asks with the usual, deadly sort of cheer that only he seems capable of possessing. 

“I don’t know,” Niner answers with a smile, and York watches as her gaze licks hungrily around the table until finally stopping on him. “How much you all got?”

York looks to the door, looks in askance at Connie. She just stands there, grinning. When she notices his gaze she winks, and York actually, loudly, groans. 

As the cards are dealt out for the next hand York can feel the eyes of every Freelancer on the room darting over to him. Again and again and again. The all know how good Niner is at poker. Know that her poker face is impenetrable and her skill at reading them almost without peer. There was a reason, after all, she had been banned from poker night. Everyone likes to, more or less, walk away with the same amount of money as they started with. It’s just easier that way. No friendships ruined, no wars waged. 

And here, in the end, was the war. One of attrition that York knows he can’t win. Before the end of the night Niner will have all of his money, and most of the funds brought by the others. The worst part? Even though everyone knows Connie is the one that brought her, York is going to be the one blamed. Carolina and Wyoming and Maine will see to that. Connie will see to that. 

So this, then was her revenge. To declare war in their one haven of peace, and then turn everyone on him for their own revenge. 

God, why did she have to be so good?


End file.
